“Should we wait?” she asks, but I shake my head and step out.
No sooner does the door close, than they pull away, and I don’t make it a foot forward when I’m flanked.
“There she is.” Beretta smiles, but it’s short-lived and the air shifts. “What the hell?”
Ransom comes right up to me, a heavy frown over his forehead, his eyes glued to the clean slice along my cheekbone. He darts forward, one hand pulling on my lower back, to keep me still or move me closer, I don’t know, but he manages both.
His free hand grips my chin, tipping it sideways and his nostrils flare, his face painted with anger, but his touch is gentle, as the last man to touch it was.
But this is different, as are his words.
“Are you okay?” He grips me tighter, his voice strained and body stiff.
I swallow, and when my hand begins to shake, I ball it into a fist, but he either notices or senses it and covers my knuckles with his palm. I’m not sure if he realizes it, but his hold on my chin has softened and slipped back toward my hair.
He dips closer and my lungs decide they can finally open, my nerves come back to life, and I suddenly feel the sting of my skin, the pounding of my head.
“Jameson.” My name is a mix between a desperate growl and harsh whisper.
My eyes flutter closed, my body deciding it needs no permission from me to mold to his.
“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” I breathe.
Fisting my hair, his exhales warm my skin, and an ache forms between my ribs, my lips parting.
His gorgeous blue eyes are sharp, hooded and desperate for something—relief, connection... answers.
But I’m not sure to what questions.
Tension builds along his brow and he swallows. My muscles coil low in my stomach as his attention falls to my mouth, only to snap back up to mine. They’re lower, darker, and I’m witness to the desire raging behind his gaze.
I hold my breath as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips and I swear he wants to kiss me, but instead, he tears away, taking my breath with him.
He throws himself in the passenger seat, and pulls his hood up over his head, pointing his glare the opposite way.
Instantly heavy, my shoulders fall, but this is an entirely different kind of weight, a denser, full-body exhausting kind.
A mental one, pounding at my temples and ribs and wrists.
It makes no sense.
When Beretta’s hand falls on my shoulder, I look to him.
He gives me a little shake. “We were just gonna fuck with you, start trouble for whoever you ditched with for the fuck of it. Didn’t think it would be your fam and didn’t know you had an interview with the Joker.”
A small smile finds my lips and I glide my finger along my skin below the cut, fluttering my eyes. “I’d say the position is as good as mine, what about you?”
He chuckles, walking backward toward the car. “You’re committed, that’s for sure,” he teases and reality slams over me once more.
Committed.
I’m committed.
I belong to a man who looked into my eyes while I stood cut and bleeding before him, his only concern if his trophy would no longer be posh and polished.
He didn’t apologize or exhale in relief that we made it off the yacht before it blew the fuck up. He didn’t ask if I was okay or offer comfort as I remained there, unmoving and maybe in a bit of shock.
He was cold. Showed no emotion.
Not an ounce of fucking care.
Just as you wished for, Jameson...
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until a forehead meets mine, and I open them to find Arsen has stepped into me.
His arms are gentle and wrap around my body, hugging me to him.
My features smooth out as I look up into his dark blue eyes. My hand falls to his chest, and a soft smile finds my lips.
“It was an accident,” I tell him, shrugging one shoulder. “I slipped getting out of the bath.”
It’s a lie and doesn’t explain why my car is here and I wasn’t, but my hair is wet from the shower. And like Beretta pretty much pointed out, I left my car here like this when I ditched with them the last time, so maybe I left with someone else today.
Arsen’s eyes are tight, and he doesn’t believe me, so I curl my lips up higher.
Never forget your smile.
“I saw your note.”
As if he forgot, his face transforms, a sly little grin slipping over him.
“And I know you wrote that very first one, too. I have to admit, I like your voice,” I whisper. “It’s sexy, or so I imagined.”
He chuckles, and my attempt for much-needed space but my inability to take it on my own works.
He releases me, stepping back a bit.
But he’s intuitive, and he reaches out again, cupping my face.
He nods slightly and I nod back.
I’m okay, Arsen.
He doesn’t believe me, but he does join his friends inside the car.
I step around mine, slipping into the driver’s seat with conscious effort not to glance in their direction. I know their eyes are locked on me and I know they are waiting for me to give them more.
I know because I can feel it.
It’s a tragic, unwelcome warmth, one I’ll freeze out with my mother’s favorite mantra: by any means necessary.
Maybe even tonight.
But since I’m not yet in my right mind, and apparently still a glutton for punishment, I dig Arsen’s note from my purse to read it once more.
Only I don’t get to.
Because it’s gone.
Hot, sweet, cheap whiskey burns its way down my throat and I welcome the sting, then pull the second shot glass to my lips, experiencing it all over again.
I take a deep breath, finish off half of my glass of water, my mind flashing to the ocean waters from earlier this afternoon.
It was beautiful and blue.
As was the yacht that exploded four feet from me.
I wince, tearing my hand from my face when I realize I had subconsciously reached up to touch the cut on my cheek, currently buried beneath my best layer of makeup, yet is still visible enough to make the bouncer warn me that ‘spousal drama isn’t welcome in this place.’
What made Anthony decide to come to the school when we have never even spoken outside of our routine? He or his receptionist emails me Sunday’s plans, sometime Friday afternoon, I add it to mine and my mom’s calendar and show up when and where I’m told. That’s it.
And then there’s the yacht...
I growl, running my hands over my hair and planting them on the bar top a moment later.
Screw this, I didn’t come here to think.
I came for the opposite.
I turn to the dance floor, getting myself as deep into the crowd as possible.
No matter what angle I shift toward, there’s no more than five inches of space between me and another person. It’s exactly as I want it to be.
Loud enough to block out my thoughts and dark enough to hide my existence. Unruly and crowded, perfectly suffocating.
I can’t think or hear anything outside the too-loud music, but I can move.
Allowing my hips to lead, I roll in tight circles, jutting my ass out every few times to stay with the beat, and the rest of my body plays as the after wave, following the same path, every part of me lost to the wild beat.
A few songs in, I begin to sweat, so I pull my hair into a high ponytail at the top of my head. As I pull on pieces to tighten it, a guy with short dark hair slips in front of me with a half grin, so as I bring my hands down, I string them around his neck.